Twisted Firestarter

What I've been thinking about this week:
1. Log burners
2. Nicknames

Wednesday is Rugby Night. Not for me, obviously, because that would be ridiculous. It's a source of great regret that, due to my kidney transplant, rugby is completely out of the question. (Phew!).

Anyway, at this time of year I get the house to myself on a Wednesday evening while Ivie goes and touches rugby players plays touch rugby. 

Proof that Ivie can score a try

One of the things I'd never done before moving to the Spittal was set a fire. Those of you who grew up in a house with an open fire will scoff and wonder what the fuss is about but it's a bit of a daunting prospect if you haven't done it before. Ivie's a calm teacher, though, and after a few attempts I'm now more hit than miss. 

My experience with the fire has made me realise I'm my father's daughter, even more than I thought. Since I'm often in the house by myself during the day, I'd much sooner put another jumper on than switch on the heating or light a fire. If you know Ivie, you'll realise why we're so well matched (for those of you who don't, farmers are notoriously tight and Ivie likes to take it to a whole new level). 

This was the conversation when Ivie got in from touch last Wednesday (dummies: 2; tries: 0; missed try scoring opportunities: at least 1):

Ivie: Dolly and I were talking about how you and Lorna can't look after fires.

Me: Oh?
Ivie: Yeah, you turn it down too low and keep your jumper on and Lorna lets it go out. 
Me: Hmph. 
Ivie: I was telling them how you're too mean to keep the fire going when you're in yourself. That's my girl! 

Me: Them?

Ivie: Yeah, Junkie was there, too. 

Proof that I can light a fire

Let me tell you about some of Ivie's friend's nicknames. 

When we started seeing each other, it took me ages to keep track of everyone's nicknames. Here are but a few: Snudge; Cub: Spaceman; Weed; Bugsy; Wee Yin; Dipster; Parp; Dorky. So, many of our conversations began, "Who's so and so? And why are they called that?". 

But Junkie and Dolly are my favourite stories. I was a bit nervous about asking why Junkie was called Junkie if I'm honest. The reason? He once had conjunctivitis. I know, I was speechless, too. 

And Dolly? Well, he's a clone of his brother. And here's me thinking it's cos he just works nine to five... 

It's all relative

What I've been thinking about this week:
1. Names
2. Relatives

I am endlessly fascinated by names: new names; old names; made up names. Although I suppose all names were made up once upon a time. 

Names tell stories. After I was born, my mum was on the phone and looking at the bookcase. She saw a book by Rebecca West and my name was decided. My middle name came from both my grannies (and I've also got an extra middle name I crammed in pretentiously after I got divorced. But that's another story). 

One of my favourite stories about names comes from my Dad's Mum's family. There was a tradition to call the first daughter Anne then add all the previous maiden names as middle names. My Gran's full name was Anne Black Macrae Wood Hanning Giblin. Thankfully she put a stop to it, otherwise my cousin Shelagh would have been Anne Black Macrae Wood Hanning Giblin Page Johnson. She'd never have been able to fit that on a form. 

"Enough is enough!"

And obviously, Ivie's name is a conversation starter. I've listened to him explain to lots of people where it comes from and that no, it's not short for anything. He's as patient as if it was the first time he's been asked and always says how well having an unusual name has served him over the years. 

He's the reason I've been thinking about names, really. As you'll know, I'm not a details person so often ask the same question more than once. I asked Ivie if his middle name was after someone in his family and he said (with slightly less patience than if someone else had asked him about his first name), "Yes (sigh). My Uncle."

Me: "Have I met him?"

Him: "No (sigh). You met his widow at the wedding reception."

Let me tell you about the wedding reception. It took place a couple of years ago and was for one of Ivie's many cousins' many children. The following weekend, we were invited to a 21st for one of Ivie's many cousins' many children on the other side of the family. 

This called for a tractor date, notebook and pencil and an attempt to:

1. understand Ivie's family tree; and

2. draw it whilst in a shoogly tractor. 

Gratuitous stationery shot

I thought I was doing quite well keeping up until Ivie dropped what I like to call the Barbara Bombshell. Barbara (who we met in Not a WAG), has two sisters - one is married to a Fisher cousin and the other is engaged to a cousin on the other side of the family. You can see why this is so complicated and why it's just as well that none of my cousins live in Wigtownshire. 

It's also just as well that we've only had the responsibility of naming a dog. Even then we managed to - inadvertently - name her after Trump's lawyer. Sigh.

Rudolph William Louis Giuliani Rudi

On the Road Again

What I've been thinking about this week:

• Time off
• Technology (again)

As you'll probably remember, I work part-time. It's a privileged existence, having the option to choose time over money and being able to do pretty much what I please most of the time. 

This is in stark contrast to Ivie who, given the choice, works every day he's at home. Sometimes it can be difficult to feel that I fit in with someone who can't sit still when I manage that pretty well, thanks very much. 

Covid has had an impact on our ability to have days out, weekends away and proper holidays over the past 18 months or so. But November is a quieter time on the farm so it's easier to lure Ivie away. I like to think that I'm an alluring siren on the rocks rather than a harpie stamping her feet but you'd have to ask Ivie. On second thoughts.... 

Last week we headed away for a few days. We had a mix of AirBnBs in the middle of nowhere and drinking bottles of wine, and visiting a couple of friends and drinking bottles of wine.

Blue skies in Norfolk

It was a really relaxing break but it reminded me of all the little things that we miss out on doing together that I'd normally have taken for granted. (Getting up at 8am at weekends is considered a lie-in for goodness' sake.)

• Having a cuppa in bed and reading the paper (Ivie's first cuppa is after he's fed beasts). 
• Sitting around in your pyjamas and easing into the day (no chance). 
• Having uninterrupted time together that isn't puncuated by something giving birth, dying, being in the wrong field (or all of the above).

It sounds like I'm moaning but it actually made me appreciate our time away even more. There was a lot of driving involved so I put my big girl pants on and took a turn in the driver's seat.  

What you should know about Ivie's car:

• My car would fit in the boot. 
• It is far too fancy for its own good. 
• I secretly like it (heated seats, anyone?).

I won't bore you with all the things it can do at the touch of a button but suffice to say my luddite tendencies have been getting quite a workout recently. 

I'm making a concerted effort to practise driving it, though, so that I don't become one of those people that expects to be chauffeur driven everywhere and then forgets how to work windscreen wipers. 

It's so much more comfortable than my own car that I'm in danger of becoming like a teenager who has just passed their test and wants to drive everyone everywhere. It might cut down on those bottles of wine, mind you. 

Computer Says 'No'

What I've been thinking about this week:

• Technology

Remember when the only phones we had were landlines? It was great. We had to wait till after 6pm until our Dads would let us phone anyone; the whole family could listen in to your conversation (especially when extra handsets elsewhere in the house became a thing); and we never knew who was phoning until we picked it up and said our number out loud.

My sophisticated neighbours, The Murrays, had a trim phone

From 1978-1992, my phone number was 20602. Nowadays I can't remember what I ate for my last meal. Or the password for anything. 

Which brings me to this week's struggle which, incidentally, is real. 

I had to get a new phone. I didn't want a new phone. I was quite happy with the one that I'd had for the last four and a half years. 

• I'd worked out how to stop it pinging every time a butterfly flapped its wings on the other side of the world. 
• My most used phone numbers were shortcuts on my front screen so I didn't have to spend an extra ten seconds scrolling when I wanted to ask Ivie why he wasn't home four hours after he said he wouldn't be long. 
• I'd adjusted the alarm sound to the equivalent of someone saying my name gently and stroking my cheek, rather than an electronic rooster strutting about the bedroom being a dick.

But the time had come. Rather like myself, my phone was taking longer to complete routine tasks. It had also started switching itself off mid-conversation when my friend and I were deep in discussion about Strictly. You can see why it had to go. 

Gratuitous Alijaz shot

After much swearing yesterday afternoon (and evening, to be fair) my new phone is set up and we're slowly becoming friends. 

It did make me think about how we're all at the mercy of technology, though, and how more and more of life needs an inkling of techy knowledge to be able to take part. It seems that it's the same in the farming world. 

A large section of Ivie's tractor cab is taken up by the GPS system and other gubbins that work out flow and spread rates and sums that Ivie still does in his head anyway for good measure. 

We were driving into town yesterday - to look at carpet samples, we're so rock n roll - and passed a field that had recently had a new crop planted in it. 

"Look at those nice straight lines," I said, feeling pleased that I'd said something vaguely relevant. 
"Aye, that's been done with a tractor with auto-steer, mind you," was the response. 

Partly, I was disappointed that my contribution had been slightly top-trumped but mainly I was relieved that I'll never have that level of farming knowledge. 

Wham, Bam, Thank You Ram

What I've been trying not to think about this week:

1. Tups' love life. 

I'm pretty used to strange lunchtime conversations. There are often updates on hatches and dispatches, machinery issues and what jobs are coming up later that day. I think Ivie finds my job updates quite boring in comparison.  

Today, Ivie casually mentioned that they'd been getting the tups ready. My basic knowledge told me that this was them getting smartened up for their big dates. 

I can't decide if they live the life of Riley or a bit of a dull existence. One way of looking at it is that they get free bed and board for 46 weeks of the year in return for six weeks' 'work'; the other is that they wander around a field for 46 weeks and only get a month and a half to play. 

My mum's not sure who my Dad is.

I wondered aloud what getting them ready actually entailed. 

Ivie: we check their teeth.

Me: what, do they get their teeth cleaned ready to impress the ladeez?

Ivie: sigh. No. 

Me: what else do you do?

Ivie: check their feet.

Me: so they can chase the lucky gals?

Ivie: sort of. 

Me: do they get a wee scoosh of Lynx Africa?

Ivie: Naw!

It turns out that they get two weeks to chase them around and bring them into season, the ewes shake their bums and then about 4 seconds later it's all over and done with. There are two tups per field of 50 ewes and apparently that's plenty to be getting along with. 

I then wondered aloud if this knowledge informed Ivie's teens and 20s till someone told him it wasn't like this for humans. Guffaw. 

Meantime, I'm sure the ewes are all discussing the latest fleece-styles and how to lose the lockdown lard. Or is that just me? 

Here Doreen, is that one of thon Brazilians? 

Writer's Block

 What you should know:

1. My blog-writing mojo has been on holiday.
2. There are fewer jokes than usual in this blog. 

It's been two months since my last blog, which sounds a bit like I've taken a wrong turn and ended up at Confession. I've started a couple of ideas but none of them have really got off the starting blocks. 

I could give you any number of excuses but none of them would be quite true. The main reason I've had writer's block is that I (temporarily) lost my sense of humour about living on a farm. Most of the time I enjoy seeing things from an outsider's point of view but sometimes I feel a bit like a round peg in a square hole. 

Lockdown and the changes we've all gone through over the past 16+ months seemed to take their toll. Being alone - as is the case a lot at this time of year - began to feel a little lonely; plans changing at the last minute started to feel a bit bigger than they normally would; and my lack of experience in farm life felt like it would never get better. 

Today's view

I spoke to a wise friend who reminded me that moving here a matter of weeks before lockdown was a baptism of fire. I don't really know what 'normal' farm life is like - and I know there's not really any such thing.

I'm not a 'oh woe is me' type, though, and I'm keenly aware that I've got it pretty good compared with a lot of people whose employment, health and relationships have been affected beyond repair. 

Thankfully, I've got this happy pair to keep me out of mischief (one of them likes getting their belly rubbed in the morning).

Lunch Break

What you should know:

1. Picnics are one of my favourite ways to eat. 
2. I'm easily duped. 

I know you'll find this hard to believe but when I was wee, I didn't have much of an appetite. I picked at my food like a bird and never felt much like eating. At lunchtimes, my mum would make me up a plate with a little bit of this and a little bit of that to try and encourage me. I don't even remember having a favourite food. 

Fast forward 40+ years and I've got what you would describe as a healthy appetite. Pretty much everything is my favourite food but especially chocolate, noodles, halloumi, hummus, all cheese, peanut M&Ms, cheese and onion pasties, scones and Doritos. But not all on the same plate because that would be weird. 

Scones! 

Even now, I like a picnicy lunch or tea when you put tasty treats on the table and keep picking at them until nobody can move. The trouble is, Ivie knows this and used this knowledge for nefarious purposes. 

I don't work Fridays and I often just pootle about drinking tea, reading and playing with the puppy. Ivie also knows this. One Friday a couple of weeks ago, Ivie was going to row up silage at the next door farm. As he was getting ready to leave, he said, "maybe we could have a picnic for lunch."

"What a great idea," I thought to myself, "I'll see how the drinking tea/reading/puppy entertaining is going and decide at lunchtime." Ivie exited stage left. 

After he'd gone, I noticed his lunch box on the table. Sans lunch. 

What Ivie said: "maybe we could have a picnic for lunch." 

What Ivie meant: "I haven't actually made any lunch for myself and if you don't make me any I won't have anything to eat today. Oh woe is me. So, you'll have to make me lunch, walk along the cycle path, through a couple of fields (uphill) in the midday sun and I'll take a 15 minute break to eat it with you. Then you can come home again."

And because I'm such a good girlfriend that's what I did. And Ivie's sister in law did the same for his brother, who I'm sure was much more direct. We set off with two picnics and two dogs and had a grand outing. And luckily for Ivie, it was a pretty good view. 

What's Got Three Wheels?

What I've been thinking about:

1. The weather. 
2. Dad jokes. 

I know us Scots think and talk about the weather more than most but it's at least double that for farmers. Sometimes it seems that Ivie endures Countryfile with his arms folded just so he can listen to the forecast at the end. 

This May has been a bit damper and colder than usual - Countryfile shared the exact stats last night but those of you who know me will know that I'm not really a details person. Suffice to say, it's been cold and wet for May and Ivie has been a bit crabbit and grumpy for May. 

He usually has a rough idea of how his week is going to pan out. Inevitably, that changes as the week goes on and it rains more (or less) or part of a machine needs taken off (or put back on) or something else happens (or doesn't). It seems that this past week has changed by the hour, though, as has the jigsaw of all the jobs that need doing. 

Ivie and Rudi going off to work

As it's dry this evening Ivie is catching up on a job that was postponed yesterday due to unexpected showers. One of the things that I'm getting used to is that if it's a nice evening, I'll probably spend it alone. (That suits my introvert tendencies but sometimes it would be nice to go to the Brigend Pantry for an ice cream together and not have to wear scarf, gloves or hat.)

I was thinking of making a cuppa and sitting outside my shed to admire the view and get some more vitamin D. There's only one problem...

I can cope with most aromas on the farm (including Ivie) but this is a bit ripe, even for me. So, I've settled for an indoor cuppa and admiring the view from the window (still spectacular, no nose peg required). 

All this reminds me of my Dad's favourite joke:

What's got three wheels and rings like a bell?

A barrowload of DUNG! 

(Insert eye roll here.)

Still, it means I'm in sole charge of the remote control. I'm off to find the Weather Channel so I can plan my next 99.

*** BREAKING NEWS ***

I've just gone online so that I could link to a definition of the 99 to anyone not familiar and the UK IS FACING A SHORTAGE!!! Never mind the Weather Channel, I need a lie down! 

International Rescue

(I thought I'd better take back control of my blog, making 1800 Hours great again and all that.)

Here's what I've been thinking about this week:

1. Sheep are endless. 
2. Maybe I'll stay out of it in future. 

The silence of the lambs is not a thing. They make a wide variety of sounds, some surprising and some annoying. 

You rarely hear, "baa," but they do occasionally sound like those old-fashioned cylindrical toys that make animal noises when you turn them upside down. 

Not endless - yet

I was thinking about all this while walking the dog one day last week. It's taken me a while to get used to the fact that now and then lambs sound like newborn (human) babies in distresss. It was quite disturbing the first few times until my brain moved from, "Panic! Babies in danger!" to, "oh lambs."

On this particular morning, I was aware of one that sounded like an 86 year old who had been smoking 60 a day since she was 10. "Meh!" It sounded a bit angry but I suppose I would be, too, if I was a lamb in a field in Scotland in the rain. 

The dog and I continued our walk, waking up slowly (me, not her), chasing sticks (her, not me) and enjoying a quiet start to the day (neither of us is very good at playing well with others until at least after breakfast). 

Morning companion

Our usual walk is a 'there and back' so we passed the same field on the way home. 

"Meh!" I heard from the same spot in the same field from, presumably, the same lamb, "MEH!" I looked through the trees and saw a head sticking through the fence. The lamb looked less than impressed, as if to say, "you heard me on the way out and you're only just having a look now?!" 

Sheep with a better understanding of fences

After a quick phone call to Ivie - for encouragement/permission to approach the lamb - and tying up the dog, I skipped elegantly nearly made it over the soggy ditch. Grabbing an overhanging branch and scrambling up a small bank covered in briars, I got up close to the detainee. It took one look at me, cocked its head and stepped backwards in one move. I could have sworn it looked smugly over its shoulder as it skipped elegantly back to its mother. 

You can imagine the reception I got when I phoned Ivie back to explain what had happened. In between guffaws, he said, "aye, that's sheep for you."

"Meh," I replied. 

It's a Dog's Life

 Here's what I've been thinking about:

1. There hasn't been a blog for a while. 
2. How hard can it be? 

I've only lived at the Spittal for about 7 months and I already know more about how this farming malarkey works than that blonde piece. 

I have quite a good life here and it didn't take me long to set the ground rules. 

Every day starts roughly the same with the ginger one letting me out. He doesn't say much but that's because he's thinking hard about the day ahead. 

My best side

The blonde one comes through next and I make sure I jump all over her while she's putting her boots on so she knows how enthusiastic I am about our morning constitutional. As far as I can make out, the length of our walk depends on a few different things:

• how much of that special juice they've drunk the night before that makes the pair of them laugh at nothing and talk even more sh**e than usual;
• whether she'll be spending the rest of the day tapping on her keyboard;
• and whether she'll be looking at anyone else on her screen and needs a hair wash.

I also love stationery

If it's her work day I sit quietly in the kitchen, whimpering from time to time to remind her I'm her real boss. If it's my work day, I get to go in the tractor or the loadall or sometimes I just get to run around the steading sniffing all the new smells that have appeared since yesterday.

My first day at work in the tractor

The smells are many and varied and largely unappreciated by the humans. Often the smells are so glorious I have to taste them and that's when one of them shouts, "Rudi, no! Stop eating the silage/calf scour/sh**e!" (delete as applicable). 

Sometimes in the afternoons I get to run around with the other boss, Isa. (Dot's the big boss but she's so important we don't see her much.) So, Isa and I mainly organise our own workloads. My job description is to run after Isa, sniff what she sniffs and taste anything she tastes. We wag our tails a lot. 

Afternoon break

At the end of the day, I get to sit on the sofa between my humans, even though I heard that before I lived here they said, "Absolutely No Dogs On The Sofa". They're hilarious. 

Hopefully, the blonde one will start taking her blog writing a bit more seriously because this took ages, what with my big, clumsy paws and my tail deleting words left, right and

Gory Stories

 What you should know:

1. I've started laughing at sheep related content online. 
2. There's no going back. 

Last night, I watched two videos online about sheep. There's a sentence I never thought I'd type. Anyone involved in lambing will already have seen them. The first showed lambs running around a field with a soundtrack reminiscent of the Grand National, basically outlining all the ways lambs can find to die. 

*Spoiler Alert* Because I Could wins the race after shrugging off the competition, including Ringworm and Fantastic Mr Fox. 

The second showed a sheep being rescued from a ditch before running away and jumping straight back into the same ditch a few feet away. Not the sharpest knife in the drawer. 

They were a welcome antidote after a week of horror stories about lambing and farming in general. Rest assured, there will be no gory details because:

1. Those involved in farming will shrug and say, "yep, been there, seen that."
2. Those not involved in farming will be horrified. 
3. I am a delicate flower. 

Delicate flowers

Like many people, our social lives have been a bit lacking lately. Luckily Galloway Heathers is open again with the addition of the Moo Bar, which serves delicious hot chocolate and tray bakes (try the millionaire's shortbread if you haven't already. Seriously). It's become a bit of a weekly treat for us and, it would seem, lots of others around here, too. 

Last week we bumped into a friend who is very well-versed in all things lambing. Let's call her Ann. Because that's her name. She started regaling a story about nasty things that happen to vulnerable lambs out on the hill. I said, "I don't think I'm hardy enough to hear stories like this." So she told five more. 

I was feeling a little queasy to say the least as we bumped into someone else who asked Ivie how lambing had gone and told another couple of ghastly stories. I can't even remember the content now, I've repressed it so far down in my brain. 

Happy, healthy sheep

I don't even think any of these stories are embellished. They don't have to be, they're so awful in the first place. 

I thought we were over the worst of it but then I remembered that farming is basically the most dangerous industry you can work in. A quick Google tells me that about 360,000 people work in agriculture, or 1% of the total workforce, yet the sector is responsible for 20% of all fatal accidents at work (source: BBC).

Anyway, we had a bit of a jaunt yesterday. It did finish at the garden centre with hot chocolate and mini doughnuts but that's by the by. We took a bit of a circuitous route home, mainly so that Ivie could look at fields and show me where he's cut silage*. And tell me about farm workers' injuries. 

I'm struggling to find something to say about this

So, as you can see, it's been a week. From now on, I only want to hear about thriving animals, farmers with all their limbs intact and cake. Not too much to ask now is it. 

* If anyone can tell me the most suitable response to, "I've cut silage in that field," I would be most appreciative. I'm not sure I'm showing the requisite amount of interest and enthusiasm. 

Step away from the caramel wafers

Things you should know: 

1. I'm not a natural athlete.
2. I really like biscuits. 

The end of March/beginning of April is a bit of a calorie-fest in our family. My brother and I have birthdays two days apart, we're both sugar fiends and, often, Easter is thrown into the (batter) mix as well. 

Birthday cake baked by Ivie

Recently, I've been trying to get back into running to offset the choco liebniz. So far, so slowly. Almost 30 years after leaving school, I still carry that self-consciousness of being picked last for every team and the memories of sporty kids sniggering. I've ditched the 'all the gear, no idea' neon in favour of all black and, although I look like I'm off to deliver a box of Milk Tray, I feel much more comfortable shuffling and puffing my way along the cycle path. 

I think about lots of unrelated things as I shuffle along. Like how I used to have lie-ins before we got a puppy and how Ivie and I used to go to bed at the same time before lambing. (It hasn't escaped me that many of these thoughts are sleep related...)

"Lie-ins? Pah!"

I also wonder about farmers and sport:

• Are they genetically predisposed to enjoy - and excel at - sport?
• Are they automatically competitive or is it instilled into them at Young Farmers?
• Does it matter that I'm from a different mould? 

I'm not sure about the answers to the first two and I know that the answer to the third should be 'no'.  

I learned early on to stay away from anything other than spectator sports in the farming community (you might remember my lack of success at curling). It's all down to an ill-judged evening at the sidelines of a hockey match. 

Like so many things, I'd said 'yes' before really thinking about it. I'd not long done a 10k (slowly but without stopping) so was fairly fit and thought I might have, say, a 30% chance of hitting the ball. It might be a bit of a laugh and a good way to meet some of Ivie's friends. 

I watched the first game with fear and awe as the players whacked the ball from one end of the hall to the other, while simultaneously cackling and sprinting. This wasn't sport, it was torture! Ivie ended up on the floor at one point after trying to intercept a flying ball. Proof, if any was needed, that I'm definitely from a different mould.

Ball just out of reach? Oh well, I might get it next time. Not the attitude that's called for apparently. 

I prefer a nice cup of tea and a sit down

So, I watched from the side, feeling slightly daft in my kit whilst pressed up against the wall for safety. It was obvious to everyone that I had no intention of actually joining in but at least I went home bruise-free. 

I guess everyone's definition of sporting success is different. 

Lambing Report

 What you should know:

1. I am traumatised.
2. I might always be a softie. 

We're almost, almost at the end of lambing. (I say 'we' but I've really had very little to do with it all.)

The extent of my involvement

There is one ewe left to lamb. She's really stringing it out, enjoying the spa treatment of the lambing shed, that includes daily feeding and watering and regular staring, swearing and shaking fists from anyone named Fisher. 

"I'm just enjoying some me time"

She's expecting a single lamb. This would have been handy at the start of the week as there were a couple of unexpected lambs. Sometimes at the tail end of lambing there are triplets when twins were expected as they were too small to be seen during scanning (see this blog post for a bit more about scanning). 

I've mentioned in previous blogs that twins tend to fare better than triplets but haven't gone into detail. Mainly because it's quite hard to explain. Let's start with the easy bit. 

1. Ewes have two teats so twins always have a ready supply of milk. 
2. Often the third triplet is quite small so has trouble muscling in on the other two. 
3. This is where 'twinning on' comes in. 

Twinning on involves persuading a ewe with a single lamb that she had a second lamb that she just hadn't noticed. It can be done in a number of ways and to varying degrees of success. 

• The lamb is put in beside her in her pen and everyone just crosses their fingers. 
• The lamb is covered in her afterbirth (or 'cleaning' as I learned it was called the other day) so that it smells like her own lamb and she licks it clean.

Those of a sensitive disposition, look away now. 

• The lamb is covered in the skin and fleece of her dead lamb like a little chichi jacket and the ewe is none the wiser. 

You can come back now.

Thankfully here, one of the first two ways tends to be used as I'm not sure I could handle the third. 

"Me? Been here all the time."

All this reduces the likelihood of having pet lambs that have to be bottle fed and kept close by before they're strong enough to go out into the field unaccompanied. 

There are no pet lambs here this year. They've either been twinned on, twinned themselves on by wandering into a neighbouring pen and pretending they were there all along or not quite made it. And other ewes have kept all three lambs as they had enough milk to make all of the triplets strong. 

Hearty twins

I'm too traumatised to tell you the story of the lamb that went to another farm the other night to be twinned on elsewhere. Maybe next year when I've toughened up a bit after another orbit round the sun. It seems unlikely, though, doesn't it. 

Not my forte

Things you should know:
1. Ivie suffers from triskaidekaphobia. 
2. It's not as painful as it sounds. 

Last weekend, it felt like Spring was in the air for many of us. The sun shone, thermals were (prematurely) shed and daffodils were starting to make an appearance. 

It was also time to make a start on a job that I'd been slightly procrastinating about. Not because I'm lazy but because I lack the precision gene. Add to that shaky hands passed down from my Dad and it's safe to say that doing things neatly is not my forte. 

I'm much more aligned to the F*** it, it'll do school of thought or as Ivie and I frequently observe, 'it's better than it was'. This is a very adaptable phrase that is useful for many household situations. 

• Washed the kitchen floor but the puppy has already scattered her food over it? It's better than it was. 
• Cleaned the car but couldn't quite reach the top of the roof? It's better than it was. 
• Made the bed but it's not quite hotel standard? It's better than it was. 

I'm not like this with everything, though; just practical tasks. Once at my old house, my brother cut the hedge and suggested (strongly) that I sweep up the debris. I got bored quite quickly and started kicking bits back under the hedge where they couldn't be seen. 

I didn't notice I'd been noticed until my brother yelled, "Pretend it's a spreadsheet!". It's a source of great disappointment that those closest to me do not share my ability to see the beauty in a neat, well-designed spreadsheet. But I digress. 

Back to the job (almost) in hand: painting my shed. Painting the inside is beyond my clumsy and trembling capabilities but I figured I could probably tackle the outside without too many issues. (Basically I'm tight and wanted to make sure my shed wouldn't rot in the rain. Can you see why Ivie and I are so well suited...?).

I managed better than I expected before I had to draft in the big boys to reach the parts smaller women can't. I was very glad to have Ivie and Drew on hand to paint the higher sections. We won't talk about who got on the roof - and how - to paint the apex. 

There was a ladder propped up against the back of the shed and I ducked underneath it from time to time to touch up some of the spots I'd missed. I wondered aloud if anyone was superstitious about it (they weren't) and I carried on. Then we started discussing phobias and superstitions more generally. 

Neat decking...

The scores are in and it's Drew - 0; me - 1 (new shoes on the table, yikes!); Ivie - many and varied, including the aforementioned triskaidekaphobia (also known as extreme superstition regarding the number thirteen). 

It turns out that Ivie is really quite serious about his feelings for the number 13. There are no lambs with number 13 sprayed on them - they go straight from 12 to 14; he doesn't relax fully until we're down to 12 ewes left to lamb; and he doesn't much care for the volume on his car radio being at 13. 

Tidying up also not my forte

As of this afternoon, we're down to 12 ewes which pleases Ivie for a couple of reasons. Partly, it's not 13 and partly, the end is in sight. Although I've learned enough about lambing over the last couple of years to know that this last dozen will really string it out, probably for another fortnight. 

Still, it's better than it was. 

Lambing: Part 4

 Things I have learned:

1. It needs more muscle power than I realised. 
2. I'm going to have to stop whining now. 

Acting like a grumpy toddler is not a good look at 46 and 11/12. But sometimes you just can't help it, right? I've been going up to the lambing shed night after night with Ivie and seeing absolutely no action. None. Nada. Zilch. So, I may have taken a kick at some straw then scuffed my way back to the house with my hands in my pockets and my bottom lip trailing on the ground the other night. 

I think up until yesterday, I'd seen four live lambs born and bottle fed a pet a couple of times (until he elbowed his way into another pen, little hooves on hips and demanded that the ewe next door adopt him right this minute). 

One of the things that I love about Ivie is that he knows exactly how much to push me and doesn't give me too much time to think about things. The first time I drove his car myself, I arrived in from a walk and he said, "can you pop to the petrol station and fill up my car?".  I was there and back before I knew it and his car and I were both still in one piece. (I should explain that Ivie's car is significantly bigger and more expensive than mine.)

This evening, I was starting to get tea ready when my phone rang. I saw it was Ivie and I assumed that the puppy was getting in amongst something she shouldn't and I was being called upon to go and extract her. Instead, he said, "do you want to come and lamb a ewe?". Thirty seconds later I was up at the shed with my sleeves rolled up, awaiting instructions. 

Something else Ivie is very good at is remaining calm pretty much all the time (rugby aside) so I knew that the ewe, lamb and I were in safe hands. 

The ewe had already lambed one herself and needed 'encouragement' to lie down. I was standing at the entrance to the shed but I'm pretty sure there should have been some coffers in the swear jar tonight. Anyway, Ivie had a bit of an investigation to make sure the second lamb was where it should be before letting me have a feel around. 

"Can you feel the feet and legs?"

"I think so."

"If you reach further back, you should feel the head."

It was difficult to keep hold of the legs and I was scared of pulling too hard and dislocating its shoulders or something. Ivie helped me give it a good pull at the right angle and out it came. I was relieved to see it was the right colour, it was opening its eyes and breathing. I squirted iodine on its navel and carried it over to the pen where we'd put the first lamb. The ewe followed, we shut the pen and I updated the blackboard. 

It certainly wasn't a solo mission and I'd need a lot more practice before I could do it on my own but at least I know I have to put my back into it. At the rate we've been going, it'll be next year before I have another go but the grumpy toddler has had her last outing to the shed. 

The Waiting Game

Things to note:

1. I should know better by now. 
2. I should also be careful what I wish for. 

It's been a couple of weeks since I last wrote a blog. The truth is, I've been waiting to report on lambing. It's underway at the Spittal but I've yet to see any lambs being born or to do anything useful. So I thought I'd wait. 

Number One*

I should know better. As I may have mentioned once or twice in previous blogs, things rarely go to plan in farming. This week, for example, there's been so much water pouring off the hills that it's had to be diverted to avoid the cycle track turning into a swimming lane. 

I've got a few days off coming up and I'm in a bit of a quandary about them. Do I spend the days walking the dog, making soup and reading in my shed or do I make myself available as a willing (but not particularly able) worker? 

I hate the idea of getting in the way or, worse still, actually causing harm. I know that the only way to learn something is to do it but there's not usually so much at stake. It's not just that there are animals' lives at risk but there's a financial element, too. 

Before I started seeing Ivie, I didn't give that side of things any thought, although it seems obvious now. I'd drive along the A75 noticing lambs in the fields and feel optimistic about spring on its way or I'd see an article about sheep worrying and think how awful for a ewe to lose its lambs. 

4 & 5*

So, I'll keep hanging around the lambing shed with Ivie, hands in pockets, not volunteering but secretly hoping he does ask me to roll up my sleeves and get stuck in. As it were. 

I'd suggest you await the next instalment but, you know, don't hold your breath. 

[* I've secretly given them proper names but I hear it's not the done thing.]

I Like Driving in my Car

What I've been thinking about this week:

1. Driving
2. Loopholes

I've not talked about lockdown much in my blogs. We're all managing it in our way and missing different things. I do feel it's the young 'uns that are missing out the most in some ways, though. This is the time they should be getting out into the world, gaining more independence and spending time with friends. 

Ivie's nephew turned 17 a couple of weeks ago and, like all farm kids, can drive better than most. But theory tests have been cancelled, driving lessons are on hold and that independence is a little bit further away than it should be.

On the plus side, he can now drive a tractor on the road unaccompanied (as long as he has L plates on show) and he's making the most of it. 

It seems ridiculous but my driving licence would allow me to drive a tractor on the road unaccompanied without L plates. I have enough trouble opening the door on Ivie's tractor, never mind figuring out how to drive it without flattening gate posts and soft verges. Besides, I wouldn't know when it needs serviced.... 

As close as I'll get

When I first started seeing Ivie, my mum asked if I'd had a 'wee shot' driving the tractor. I had to explain that it was worth more than the house I was living in at the time and had a dashboard more complicated than NASA control. 

I might be allowed to drive this one

I'll stick to my wee car, although it'll be no surprise to anyone that it hasn't had much action recently. I took it for its MOT last week and I've done less than 3,500 miles in the last 12 months. We were discussing that we've barely needed one car lately, never mind two. I wonder if I could learn to park the tractor in the Aldi car park after all.